JOHNNY AND VIVIENNE got in the back seat of the white Honda. Val got behind the wheel. In that early slow sundown, which goes to black quickly, they drove west into light and shadow, descending to sea level.
“You know, I remember having a beer with Che,” Val said. “In Ireland on St. Paddy’s Day.”
“Like hell you did,” Vivienne said, checking out Val’s laughing face in the mirror.
“True story,” Val said. “So I’m doing some checking up on our boys in the IRA. First I had to go to New York, because Che was speaking at the UN. December 1965. Sure, a couple nutjobs had tried to knock Che off in Manhattan: a woman with a knife at the UN, and then some real brainiac who sat in the East River with a badly timed bazooka. So then Che decides to tour the world and check out his Irish roots.”
“Che?
